


Like Minds

by Geonn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Character, Crossdressing Kink, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, F/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Naked Female Clothed Male, Pegging, Public Nudity, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene has some fun before returning Sherlock's jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Minds

Irene smiled as she clutched the collar closed, the pavement cold under her bare feet. She chided herself for not thinking of this earlier; walking down a crowded avenue with nothing but a coat between her and every other pedestrian? It was thrilling. The power she felt every time someone glanced down at a sliver of revealed thigh or furrowed their brow at her bare feet and wondered just what else was bare... She dropped her hand, let the collar gape, and held her chin high. Now she was exposed, feet and calf, alternating inner thighs depending on how she stepped, and a plummet from throat to cleavage. 

They all looked. They all wanted her. And she could have any and all of them she wished. She locked eyes with a young woman sitting in a café and Irene winked at her. The woman blushed, but she did not look away. Irene pursed her lips. _Later, dove._ She grinned, showing her teeth as she crossed the street. The charge started between her thighs and rose all the way up to the center of her chest.

She entered an alley and went into a room that didn't exist. The dry cleaners on one side thought it belonged to their back-side neighbor; the back-side neighbor thought it was part of the dry cleaners. That left her a narrow and dark garret that suited her needs when she wanted to be invisible. She considered taking off Sherlock's coat, but it was just so snug and fit her perfectly, and she sincerely enjoyed the feel of the lining against her smooth skin. She wondered if Sherlock had ever worn it while nude. She ran her fingers over the lapel and stood in front of the mirror.

Yes... quite a dashing look. If she was a petty criminal she'd consider keeping it. She slipped the detective's phone out of her pocket and walked to bed on the balls of her feet as she poke-tapped at the screen. She opened the pictures and scrolled through with fading excitement. That was a pity; she thought all men had a picture of their cock somewhere on their cell phone. Wasn't that why all those American politicians kept getting in trouble? 

It shouldn't have surprised her. Even if it was typical and not just an urban legend, Sherlock was hardly a typical male specimen. She pirouetted and dropped onto the bare mattress of her bed. She clutched the coat and pulled it up, breathing deeply. Bleach, gunpowder, soap, resin. Oh, the contradictions the man presented even to a nose! Bland and violent and refined all at once. Irene smiled and unbuttoned the coat, spreading the two halves apart and cupping her breasts as she closed her eyes.

Cocks were things she rented, things that came to her so she could do things to and with them. She had little to no interest in the actual organ nor the men attached to them. When it came to romance, to "freebies," she preferred the soft (or not so soft) touch of another woman. Looking down to see a wave of red hair, a delicate sweep of eyelashes across a porcelain cheek, lips painted rosy red, wet and parted in anticipation of being given permission to taste... 

Irene dragged her fingernails down the middle of her torso, dipping into her navel before crossing her hands over her hairless pubic mound. 

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. She envisioned him as she moved her right hand lower to tease her sex. A royal had once shaken and pleaded for permission to touch this sensitive spot. She would make Sherlock weep before she gave the nod. Fighting those American oafs alongside him... oof. She shivered and put her hands against her thighs, pulling them apart. The air of the room moved against her folds, but that was the only touch she allowed. She dragged her fingernails down and then back up, teasing, refusing herself the touch she craved.

She had read up on Sherlock... just as he'd read up on her. She imagined they had done it at the same time. Oh, the wonder of technology, that they could be miles apart and yet examining each other for weakness and flaw. And then standing together in the room, she had _felt_ it. Their connection was internal, not physical. Her mind ached at the thought of being near his, simply because he was, oh at long last, a challenge.

She wanted him. She desired him in a way that was new, in a way she had never desired a man before. It was no mystery; even the imbeciles at the police could have solved the case.

Irene wanted Sherlock because they were the same person. Not two halves of a whole, but complimentary minds existing independently of one another. They couldn't coexist with "normal" people simply because normal was boring. So Sherlock hid himself away and only dealt with those who could fascinate him, and Irene sold her time and proclivities to anyone with the cash to afford her. And they each had their consorts. Dr. Watson and the lovely Kate. Their lifeline to the real world, to keep them grounded in their isolation. 

It was Kate who found potential clientele. Kate who arranged for the high-security meetings with those who would be ruined by association with a dominatrix. The sweet young newly-royal thing who wanted a last thrill before her fairy-tale wedding that would turn her into an untainted princess. Irene smiled as she remembered, moving her hand back up to her breasts and pinching the nipples until she arched her back and twisted to escape herself. The heels of her feet slid over the mattress as she writhed.

Sherlock solved his little mysteries and tangled with criminals. Irene solved people, pushing them up to the edge in order to find their perfect tipping point. The spot where it wasn't entirely pleasure but not solely painful. It was a delicate operation, knowing when tears weren't exactly a request to stop, to know when cries went from "more" to "please no." Irene craved that balance and held her lovers there as long as she could bear before granting them release.

One hand went up to her neck, rubbing it as she dropped her other hand to her stomach. She circled her navel with her middle finger, a mockery of what she really wanted to do. She pictured Kate in a deerstalker cap, a man's shirt, a strap-on poking out from the tails. She'd have to wear a wig, of course. Irene pictured her ginger valet standing at the window, hand loosely around her dildo... and Irene approached her from behind. Dressed only in garters and a flowing cape, a cock of her own bouncing deliciously against her thighs as she moved, Irene would press against Kate/Sherlock, pull her/his hair, bite and lick his neck until he was putty in her hands. She would hold his cock with one hand, but she would be guiding her own cock forward.

"Irene..."

"Sherlock...." This she said out loud, her muscles clenching as they begged for penetration, for the slightest touch, but she kept one hand on her neck and the other across her breasts as she pictured herself. Kate/Sherlock's hands flat against the window, back bowed, presenting herself. And Irene lifting the tail of her/his shirt, tip of the dildo against her ass, and then again, "Sherlock _Holmes_."

Kate/Sherlock crying out as the cock pushed inside, and then Irene gripping the material of the shirt as she began to fuck her/him hard, fast, both of them crying out with each forward thrust. Irene dropped her hand to the mattress and gripped for sheets that weren't there, her hips thrusting against her invisible lover, her lips parted in silent puffs of air as she imagined her hand curling in Kate's wig/Sherlock's hair and pulling his head back, looking past him at the window, at the people passing on the street and seeing what Irene was doing to the beloved detective. 

Her hand bumped something and she opened one eye to see what it was. Sherlock's phone. Her lips twisted into a smile and she picked it up, holding it over her face as she writhed under the pleasure of her own mind. She scrolled through the features with her thumb, her other hand skimming over her curves and then hovering over her sex. She would make Sherlock call it something else, though. Before she let him taste it, enter it, finger it, fuck it, she would make him call it her cunt, her pussy. She would make him vulgar.

She found a way to record a ring tone and held the phone close to her lips. She could see markings on the phone and felt as if she was about to whisper directly into Sherlock's ear. She pressed record and pushed two fingers into her wet folds. The sigh that she released was authentic and automatic, and she listened to the recording as she twisted her fingers inside of her. The heel of her hand rested against her mound and she lifted her hips to meet it. She bit her lips, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she came with a shudder. 

Sex was frequent with Irene.

Orgasms, however, were a rare treat.

When she was finally recovered, she sat up. She wondered if her juices were staining the lining of Sherlock's coat. Another mystery for him to investigate. She imagined him holding it to his nose, sniffing, and an aftershock rolled through her body. She tapped his phone screen some more and entered her personal number into his phone book. She bit her lip as she assigned the ring tone - her sigh of pleasure and release - to herself. She very nearly locked it so he couldn't change it, but decided to leave it up to him. She doubted he would, but the choice needed to be his.

Finally she stood and shed the coat, dressing quickly from the wardrobe that took up the entire back wall of her cell. She would dress and take the coat back to Sherlock, along with the phone. Taking it with her to escape was a matter of necessity, but she'd never intended to keep it. She would hate to be considered a common criminal.

Hell... she would hate to be considered a common anything. She had a feeling Sherlock Holmes was going to prove to be anything but a common adversary.


End file.
